


Snapped In Half

by TheBobblehat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Druglock, Feels, Gen, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBobblehat/pseuds/TheBobblehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has come home from the holidays, only to find that something isn't quite right. While he and Sherlock have always been at each other's throats, there's something harsher about his little brother that he has yet to put his finger on. Will he be ready to face the answer?</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>Trigger warning: drug abuse</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapped In Half

There was something detestable about coming home. Mycroft had always thought so. At the ripe age of twenty three, Mycroft Holmes was already nearing the end of his university studies, having excelled in school his entire life. It was his best quality, in his opinion. The ability to consume himself in work. It was certainly better than concerning himself with the lives of goldfish, as he liked to put it. Frankly, the Holmes brothers didn't make friends well. Sherrinford, the eldest of the three, was currently abroad, and thus excused from family holidays until he returned from Asia. The lucky bastard. Sighing to himself, he stared out the window of his train as it pulled into Berwick station in Sussex. It had already started to sprinkle, the sky above him gray and dour. How appropriate. He lifted his tired eyes to the window, spotting his reflection staring back at him. He'd lost a couple pounds over the last month, but his face still retained a faint chubbiness to it. Knowing his mother, she'd try to force him into some fatty, home made meal, topped off with a Christmas pudding. He could feel the calories already...

The ringing of the station bell brought him out of his daydream and back into reality. His eyes immediately went to the crowd outside his train carriage. Eagerly awaiting families and lovers alike, some with gifts and eager smiles. And there, lingering by a pillar, stood the Holmes family. Mycroft heaved a sigh and stood, leaving his compartment with his luggage in tow. Stepping out, he was immediately spotted by the ever sharp eyes of his mother. 

“Mykie!” A happy smile flashed across her face as she approached, hands outstretched. Mycroft, wincing at the pet name, approached and allowed the eventual hugs to happen. His mother had always been the doting sort. There was never a shortage of hugs or kisses from the woman. Regardless of the several embarrassing moments of public affection during childhood, Mycroft would admit – only to himself – that he sometimes missed her squishy arms. Her lips made a mark on his cheek, one which he immediately wiped with a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Mother,” he said, forcing a smile.

“My gracious, you've gotten taller! And look – look at that, Tim! Little Mykie's lost some of that baby fat.” As she pet Mycroft's cheek, a spot of dirt caught her eye. Without shame, Wanda Holmes licked her thumb to wipe it away. Mycroft immediately dodged the attack.

“Mother _please._ I've only just stepped off the train. Can I have a moment to breathe before I'm reduced to a boy home from school in your eyes?”

“Oh come now, Myke. Humor her, eh? It's Christmas.” Timothy Holmes, his eyes wrinkling as he smiled, patted Mycroft's shoulder before pulling him into a hug. Around his face, Mycroft could detect the overgrowth of gray hairs, crowning his usual head of brown. “Good to see you again, son. How's uni?”

“Fine. Just fine.” He straightened out his waistcoat, flattening it a bit over his rounded stomach. That's when his sharp eyes turned to the face hovering behind his father's shoulder. A mirrored pair met his own gaze, hiding beneath the rim of a hood. The shadow of which hid most of the boy's facial features from view. However, Mycroft didn't need a full picture to know who was underneath it. “Hello, Sherlock. How in the world did they drag you out of the house?”

“Oh you know. Parental guilt. The threat to have the government declare me a public threat. The usual.” Mycroft smirked at his brother's smarm. As lovable as their parents were, their offspring had developed a sort of adverse allergy to any sort of endearment. They were close, in a sense. When Sherrinford went off to boarding school, the two younger siblings had no one but each other; if anything, they could always complain about the stupidity of strangers. Two peas in a very spaced out pod, one would say. Mycroft let his eyes linger on Sherlock's form. Most notably the drastic sharpness to his features. The sixteen year old was a deal more gaunt than the last time Mycroft laid eyes on him. “Neglecting to eat again?” he mused.

“Well you've covered that base well enough for the both of us, so why not?”

Mycroft's eye twitched. “I've lost seven pounds in the past week alon-”

“Five.”

“Seven.”

“Nope. Just five.”

“ _Seven._ I've been keeping track.”

“And lying to yourself.”

“Boys, boys.” Blustering in between the two of them, Wanda frowned, hands on her hips. “Now that's enough. Come on, Sherly. Help your brother with his things.”

Mycroft lifted one of his heaviest case. “Yes, _Sherly._ Do help.”

“Right.” Sherlock took the suitcase, eye quirked. “There is only so much weight you can carry...”

“ _Boys._ ” Timothy stepped forward, as Wanda had already gone to their car. “Behave. For your mother.” His kindly smile was enough to quell their bickering for the moment. However, when the man had turned his back, Sherlock pushed his thumb up to his nose in a very unattractive face, followed by snorting noises. Mycroft sneered.

“You should keep that look,” he snapped. “It's an improvement.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“I don't see why I have to help with the cooking.”

“Because your father does the decorating and your brother is off at the store.”

Mycroft, pausing in his potato peeling, turned to his mother, a look of frustration in his eye. Currently, they were at the sink, a colorful array of vegetables at their disposal. “Might I point out that Sherlock has been gone getting yams for at least an hour now? If he's any sense, he's hopped a bus to London.”

Normally, it would be at this point of the conversation where Wanda would berate her son for being a grinch. Perhaps chide him for the lack of faith in his brother, or his unwillingness to partake in prepping the mashed potatoes. But as her knife came down to her carrot, the woman paused, uncertainty on her face. In spite of Mycroft's attitude, the young man certainly took notice. After a moment of silence, Wanda continued her dicing.

“I'm sure the lines are long. Christmas Eve and all that.” Mycroft was silent. Somehow, he knew the source of her worry. “After all,” she continued, “you know him. He's... probably side tracked by some animal carcass in the middle of the road or...” Slowly, Mycroft set aside his peeler.

“So it wasn't just me then.” The two Holmes' shared a glance. “He's a bit... off. Isn't he?” Wanda turned her eyes away. “He's lost weight. Rapidly, if his loose clothes are any indication. Hasn't bathed in three days, I want to say? And his behavior today... You know he and I have always been a bit coarse with each other, but he was almost...”

“Cruel.” Wanda had gone back to her carrots, but her movements were slowed considerably. “Yes. I know. It's almost like he doesn't notice.” _Chop, chop, chop._ “It's been getting worse lately. I can't remember the last time I saw him eat. I always give him plates, but they're always untouched or tossed in his bin.”

“Not unusual,” Mycroft remarked.

“If he's thinking, yes I know. But...” Wanda removed her knife, turning her eyes up to Mycroft. He could see a mist within them. “Mycroft... He hasn't touched his tools in the longest time. He's not working on anything, not a thing. _Something_ has happened to my baby boy. He's... he's _different_ and...” Taking a moment, Wanda Holmes quickly grabbed a towel, holding it up to her face. Tears were fighting to escape. Quickly, she blotted them away. “And he won't talk to me. More so than usual.” Without thought, Mycroft had laid a hand on her back, his heart clenched with anxiety. The man might have scoffed at the thought of family get-togethers, but let it never be said that Mummy Holmes was not loved. “I'm so... I'm so worried about him.”

Mycroft pulled her into a hug, his brow dark and heavy. “I'll go check up on him.” With that promise in the air, Mycroft strode from the kitchen to the front step of the house, grabbing his umbrella along the way. Just in case it rained. In the distance, he heard the voice of his father comforting his mother. A frustrated determination in his heart, Mycroft marched his way out into the suburban street, heading toward the general market.

All around him, houses were draped with Christmas cheer. Mycroft had never been one for merriment. Now more than ever, Christmas was the least of his worries. As Mycroft walked, his eyes darted from one spot to the other, looking for any signs of curly hair. He could find none. No scrawny figure lurking by a trash bin. No boney silhouette collecting fungus from some poor bloke's yard. Mycroft couldn't so much as find fibers from the boy's jacket on the ground. Sherlock had all but vanished into thin air. Until Mycroft got to the street tunnel.

It was dark by then. Winter days and so on. The flickering fluorescents of the concrete tunnel beneath the busy intersection gave off an erie air to the place. Mycroft was almost hesitant about entering. Until, that is, he saw a hunched over figure near the middle. A figure he would recognize anywhere. Immediately, the elder stormed forward, ready to give his younger a piece of his mind for causing such a fuss. Half way there, he froze.

In Sherlock's hand was a hypodermic needle, the syringe just above the skin of his inner arm.

Mycroft watched in horror as whatever vile liquid Sherlock had come up with was slowly injected into his body. Sherlock's fingers extended and twitched, a sigh leaving his lips. Mycroft didn't know how to react. Run ahead? Knock it from his hands? Whatever the right answer, he could do little but stand there, watching, as Sherlock flirted with disaster.

When the solution was gone completely, Sherlock removed the needle and pushed down his sleeve. Getting it to his wrist, he paused, head tilted a bit. It was only a moment of silence before he stood, that hood hiding his upper face quite well. “Are you just going to stand there all night?”

Mycroft felt his throat go dry. Finally with the strength to move, he rushed forward, mouth agog. “Sherlock-”

“Before you say a word, know that all of my measurements are completely accurate.” Sherlock held up a little glass bottle. “One ounce of a 7% solution. Nothing more."

This, beyond reason, infuriated the older brother. Snatching it from Sherlock's fingers, he held it aloft. “And how can we _trust_ your measurements if they're taken while you're drugged up?”

“Please. I pre-measure. Obviously.”

“This is enough. No more of this.” Mycroft stuffed it into his coat pocket. “Now come home.”

Sherlock, his eyes locked on that front pocket, was still. “Give it back,” he ordered quietly.

“Mummy is crying because of you. I would say you've ruined Christmas but at least the house wasn't burned down this year. Now let's go before you make things worse-”

“Give it back.” Repeating his words, Sherlock turned to Mycroft. His eyes were sharp. Dangerous, almost. Mycroft's merely hardened.

“Sorry, brother mine. I'm pulling rank on you. Be lucky I don't turn you in to the police.”

“Give it back.”

“I will _not_ let you destroy yourself, Sherlock.”

“For the last time, Mycroft. Give. It Back.”

“Or what?”

Sherlock's upper lip twisted in threat. Head lowered, Sherlock's baggy eyes were the brightest thing about him. In such a mask of abuse, Mycroft's younger brother looked – to put it mildly – absolutely frightening. “Or I will snap your radius as if it were a pretzel.”

Mycroft, his hand tight on the bottle in his pocket, decided to call his bluff. “No you won't. Now stop being foolish.”

It happened in an instant.

Before Mycroft knew it, Sherlock had grabbed Mycroft by the collar and thrown him, as hard as possible, against the wall. He cried out in surprise, head rocketing back at the collision. Dazed and sin shock, Mycroft dropped his umbrella, stumbling backwards. Sherlock did not allow him a chance to breathe. Spinning him about, Sherlock let his fist fly. His first punch was right into Mycroft's jaw. A hit that probably hurt the both of them equally. Well, maybe if Sherlock hadn't been high out of his mind. Mycroft doubted if he'd feel a knife wound at this point. The second punch came all too quickly, and this time hit his stomach. Winded, Mycroft grasped at Sherlock's arm, but had no breath to beg him to stop. Instead, his face was greeted with more hits. Again and again Mycroft was struck. Eventually, he was on his knees, blood pouring from his face. But Sherlock didn't stop there. Kicking him to the ground, Sherlock pushed him face first into the pavement, grabbing a hold of his arm. With as much strength as he could muster, the younger took ahold of his wrist and pulled, twisting as harshly as possible. Mycroft couldn't help himself – he screamed.

“ _Sh-Sherlock-!_ ” Blinded by blood and pain, Mycroft devoted all energy to his voice. “ _Sherlock stop! Stop, p-please-!_ ”

In an instant, the strain on his arm lessened. Sherlock's foot was removed from Mycroft's back. Uncontrolled and winded, he found himself sitting on the ground, staring at what he had done. Mycroft hadn't moved from his spot on the ground. His body felt like lead. He could feel where a tooth had been chipped, and his nose was absolutely gushing red by now. A tense silence met the two brothers. Slowly, the older pushed himself to his knees, managing to keep his balance. With a trembling hand, he wiped the red from his eyes, if only to see better. He stared at his brother, partly in disbelief, partly in horror. For a while, they could think of no words to say to each other. Sherlock did not cry, nor beg for forgiveness, and indeed Mycroft was not inclined to give it. But there was a regret and a fear on his face the likes of which Mycroft had never seen before. Almost fascinated, Sherlock held up his knuckles. As though he could not believe the evidence of his own, soiled hands. Gradually, he lowered them, still speechless at his own actions.

“What has happened to you?”

It was Mycroft who broke the silence first. His eyes fixated on Sherlock's shaking body, he began to mop up the mess on his face. He was still in pain, of course. But that would have to wait. With weak limbs, Mycroft edged forward. “Look. Look at me, Sherlock.” He did so. “Look at what you've done...” Mycroft winced, a hand on his swollen cheek. “This... this isn't my brother. You are not my brother, Sherlock Holmes. He would never do this to me.”

Instead of souring, or thinking of something to bite back with, Sherlock shoved his face in his hands, curling into a tight ball on the ground. Watching, Mycroft knew he should have been mad. Furious, even. And he was. Sherlock had done some very stupid things in the past. Most of which involving erosive chemicals and their mother's microwave. This was by far the worst. “Stupid,” he muttered aloud. “You've always been so stupid, Sherlock...” He remained silent. With as much strength as he could muster, Mycroft picked himself up and went to his brother. Shaky hands descended down and helped Sherlock to his feet. The boy stumbled, clutching his big brother, uncertainty and guilt still heavy on his shoulders.

Without another word, the Holmes boys limped their way home. Mycroft didn't even notice that he had left his umbrella behind.


End file.
